My First Pedicure

 by Moe O'Brien

   

I walk into Regal Nails for my very first pedicure.  “Hipicolor” is the first word I hear.  I must look as confused as I feel.  The receptionist moves toward me, taking very tiny steps. Even with her baby steps, she appears to be running.  She taps her small hand on my arm and gently ushers me toward shelves, lined with little bottles of color.  I have learned from my travels abroad that one does not need to know the language to understand.  I get it.  She wants me to pick a color for my nails.   What she doesn’t know is that it took me two years to pick a color for my living room.   She scurries back to her desk, leaving me to ponder.  Choosing a Sherwin Williams paint chip is beginning to look easy.  This is crazy, right?  This paint is for my toes, which are always covered in socks and sneakers.  And anyway, it will fade away or grow out or whatever it does.

    After ten minutes of picking up the bottles and looking at the names, I simply cannot decide.  The name “fabulous” sounds good but it looks way too pink.   I walk back over to the receptionist and ask if I can look at what the other customers have chosen.  “Sure, sure,” she says as she walks me down a row of five customers, all in different stages of their pedicure.

    Very politely, I ask each customer if they would mind my checking out their color.  Everyone seems amenable to this.  One customer pipes up, “this is the color I always wear; it would look good on you.”  I look at her toes and wonder what slimy, algae filled pond she has been wading in.

    “Oh, thanks for the suggestion,” I say sheepishly.  “I was thinking more along the reddish pink or pinkish red family.”

    The last lady in line has her nose in a book.  No; that is an understatement.  She is not reading the book; she is breathing it.   She appears oblivious to anything going on around her.  As feet go, hers are very pretty with her nails painted a light coral color. I am so taken by her beautiful feet that I whisper, “You have lovely feet.”  I turn to the receptionist.  “That’s it.  I want her color.”

The Reader looks up at me.  I expect her to acknowledge my compliment.  Instead, in a deep guttural voice, she says, “It’s not a pinkish red.  Nor is it a reddish pink.  It is orange.” Obviously, she’s been paying attention.

     “Fair enough,” I respond.

      My pedicurist’s name tag says Lien.  She fills the tub with heated water and submerges both of my feet.  She sits on a low stool in front of me, her head and shoulders bent forward toward my feet, as if in submission.  I can’t help but think of Jesus, washing Mary Magdalene’s feet.   She wears no makeup.  She doesn’t need any.    Her black, shoulder length hair is straight and shiny.  Her wide, dark, eyes look up at me, as she says, “okay, other foot please.”      She does not wait for my response but instead, lifts the foot of her choice out of the water and begins to gently massage it.  This would be soothing if I wasn’t so ticklish.  She grabs some sort of bar that I don’t realize is sandpaper and scrubs the bottom of my feet. My body from head to toe jumps with every touch. “Tickle, yes?” she asks.

    There is a young boy sitting across from me.  I can’t take my eyes away from him.  His thin lips are pressed so tightly together, they seem to disappear.  His eyes are alert with concentration. They widen and narrow, as he looks up from the laptop that sits in front of him.  His fine, black brows go from furrowed to perfectly straight and serene.  He looks up every once in awhile and speaks in a melodic tone to a woman giving a pedicure two chairs down from me.  She turns to look at him and gives her response.   My guess is that she is his Mother, and from the tone of her voice, she has said ‘no.”  Then I watch the boy roll his eyes and I know I am right.

    He gets up from his laptop and walks over to her.  It is then that I realize how chubby he is.  And how beautiful.  His complexion is a mocha coffee combination and his full cheeks are a rosy pink.   All I can think of is Rubens portrait of his daughter Clara, that I had seen at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.  Dear Lord, Mister Rubens…please come back and paint this little boy, I think.  I stop Lien from going further. “Please, I need to change my color.  Match my color to that little boys cheeks and I will be happy forever.”  

copyright 2013 by Moe O'Brien   

 Maureen “Moe” O’Brien moved from Bethel, CT to Myrtle Beach, SC in 1988.   Her “claim to fame” as she likes to phrase it, is that she played professional basketball, touring with the Harlem Globetrotters in 1959. She is an avid golfer and won the SC Senior Women’s Golf Championship in 1993 and 2004.  Her book “Who’s Got The Ball?  And Other Nagging Questions About Team Life”, was published in 1995.  It is a “how to” book for team members in all work environments.  Maureen is the proud Grandma of eight granddaughters, ranging in age from fifteen to twenty seven.

The Intrepid Warrior and The Bush

By Ralph C. Quinn

I don’t think there is much in life that really scares me anymore; other than perhaps the usual morbid curiosity and fear one has for his own demise, failing health, the usual life worries or maybe that old tree growing over our bedroom.

But I find myself in a battle that has gone on for years with an insidious foe that is undefeatable……….the hydrangea bush.

The foe is insatiable in its appetite for earth; creeping and crawling, under, over and through anything in its path. I am convinced it cannot be killed!!! I thought I had defeated the one in the backyard. Digging it up along with the earth around it for five feet in all directions, delicately sifting through the dirt down as far as four feet, removing every bit of root and fiber. Gleefully burning some in the fireplace, filling the hole with a goodly dose of defoliant, root killer, used motor oil and anything toxic I could think of………nothing has grown there in over eight years, not even weeds.

Last year several shoots of hydrangea popped up and I could hear them laughing.

I would hate to try and remove the one out front altogether (if that is even possible without irradiating everything for six blocks in every direction) as it is extremely old (and clever) and is not a hybrid. It’s a genuine Hydrangea macrophylla, probably around 140 years old and I truly believe it is immortal. It is worse to deal with than a career politician and more stubborn than my late Grandmother. I would pump a slurry of ammonium nitrate and diesel under it and blow it to kingdom come, but I fear my neighbors would frown on it.
Especially after it began growing in their yards after the roots distributed themselves around the city.

So here I am…..back hurts and neck is stiff from digging a trench around it and pulling roots as they crawl under the house and the lawn as I try to at least keep it in one place. I am sure the pile of roots out front at the curb, which is bigger than the bush itself was when blooming last year, is confusing to those passing by who may wonder just where the hole is for the huge tree I must have dug up.

So the battle goes on, the war will never end.

Those that believe that after we finally immolate ourselves in that great nuclear blast that the only things living will be rats and cockroaches…….

…….haven’t ever done battle with a hydrangea.

 Copyright Ralph C. Quinn, 2013

Ralph C. Quinn is a lifelong resident of Utica, New York.  Born there in 1959, Ralph has lived and traveled extensively across the United States. He is presently a Manager for a national restaurant chain. Married to Bett,y he is the father of 7 children and grandfather of 12.  Ralph’s main interests are Martial Arts, the study of Far Eastern Religions, Philosophy and music. He Admins several forums, writes for the sheer joy of telling stories and still makes his home in Utica with Betty, their flock of 9 parrots and their Siamese cat Kao K'o-Kung.

The Hired Girl

by Delores Miller

So it was the summer of 1954, the year between by sophomore and junior year of high school. In central Wisconsin a summer cash crop was a half-acre of cucumbers and young people picked the blasted pickles to earn cold hard cash.    Some  raised beans, to be picked for four cents a pound and hauled to the canning factory in Clintonville.

Being a hired girl was one step up from bending over in the hot sun.  Pickles had to be picked every day, rain or shine with mosquitoes sucking blood.

Some teenage girls migrated to the Chicago area to be nannies for rich people in the summer.  I was too frightened to get on the train to travel south that far.  So my only option was to be a Hired Girl.  This was a 12-hour a day job, with Sundays off.

It was with a  dairy farm family north of Marion.   Big Holstein cows, which produced 40 cans of milk a day, hauled to the Caroline Gold Cheese Factory. 500 acres of land.  My pay was a dollar a day, or seven precious dollars a week.  Baby sitting four  small 

mischievous whippersnappers , two in cloth diapers.  (Today in 2013 these lads have grown up, became responsible citizens of the community, nearing retirement.)  Cleaning house, scrubbing floors,   ironing.  White shirts, house dresses, children's clothes.  Cooking for that family of six, plus the multiple hired men. The Missus was a very good cook, and made delicious cakes, pies and cookies.  Some recipes I still use. The hired men got paid three dollars a day, for a 12-hour work schedule and for that they had to maintain an automobile, drink, carouse, dance at the Caroline Ballroom and court the girls.  They earned their money.  (Military draft was looming over young men's heads, hence working on farms earned deferment.  Some threw in the towel and joined the Marines anyhow.)

The task I dreaded most was cutting grass.  Half acre.  Granted even in those days they had a power mower with a rope pull starter, which I could never get started and then it would snub in the tall wet grass.   Leg cramps at night.   Small pine trees I clipped off, whoops!

This was a happy, church-going, social family and they treated me well, even though I was the hired girl.  The Mister and Missus died a few years ago, us hired men and hired girls went to their funerals, sat together in a church pew and remembered how hard we worked way back then.

It was a beautiful day to die.

Though they are gone,

The grass will grow,

The sun will shine,

The cows will be milked,

The river will flow,

Life will go on,

But we will not forget them.

copyright 2013 by Russell and Delores Miller

Black Silk For One Night

  

      

  By Annie Fiore

         

          I was standing off to the side in the funeral home watching as mother greeted the visitors.  One by one they came up to her offering their condolences, as mother tried to respond without falling to pieces, again.  I say again, because this is the forth husband my dear mother is sending off to the hereafter. 

          My father, who was her childhood sweetheart and soul mate, was a wonderful man.  He adored her and she was devoted to him.  When father died unexpectedly, after twenty-three years of marital bliss, we were all concerned about mother’s ability to deal with his loss.

          However, mother being the strong woman she is, and being one of Peachtree, Georgia’s best looking females, we didn’t think that it would be too long before some gentlemen would find his way into her heart.  When he did, it was a whirlwind affair and they were married one year and one month after father’s demise.

          By the time, Rodney, husband number two, died, five years later we all figured that mother would move on and find another partner. 

          Surprisingly, it was about two years before mother met George,

who eventually became husband number three.

          As mother continued her life with Georgy, as she called him, my sister and I and our brother sighed with relief knowing that mother was happy, once again.

          Unfortunately, the funeral parlor scene was repeated again and my dear mother, was once again, in the front row greeting the visitor who have come to pay their respects for the forth time.  And, of course mother still looked her very best, in a white linen suit, at the age sixty eight, not looking a day of fifty five, had become a pro in the art of portraying the grieving widow.

          Now what you need to know is that when mother was married to my father she would always say that she wouldn’t know what to do if something happened to father.  Mother never came up for air when she talked about him to her family and friends.  She would always say, “My Spencer is the best husband any woman could ask for.  My husband this, and my husband that;” and, “oh I wouldn’t know what to do if anything ever happened to Spence.”  That’ s when father would chime in and say, “Yeah, yeah, black silk panties for one night.”

          I had never really given that comment much though, not even when father died.  But, tonight what father said about the black silk panties came rushing in to my head.  I guess because this was the forth time that mother was wearing some variation of a white linen suit instead of the traditional black. 

          I never did ask mother why she didn’t wear black for father’s wake nor for George’s or Rodney’s.  In keeping with her style, here again she was wearing white linen.

          I never really gave the white linen suit much thought until this morning when we were getting ready for the viewing.   I didn’t spend much time on it except to  remind myself that wearing white is indicative to living in the south.  The weather here is usually sunny and warm and, it is quite common for southern women, especially those of class, to wear white for special occasions.  Depending how you look at it, a funeral is a special occasion of sorts. 

          I continued to stay in the back ground for a little while longer, watching as mother occasionally wiped away a tear or two, making a special effort not to smear her make-up.  Heaven forbid if her eyeliner and mascara were to smudge around her sad grieving brown eyes.  But, I’m truly not worried about that since I now consider her a seasoned grieving widow who can stay in control of her emotions and display composure. 

          It was time for me to get back to the visitors and as I walked towards the front of the room, I made a mental note to some day ask mother why she never wore black. 

          Several months had passed, after Arthur’s funeral, when I stopped by the house for our weekly lunch date.  We talked about the usual things, the grandchildren, the weather and the loneliness she was feeling.  I listened, interjecting the appropriate aha, and oh when required.  Thinking to myself as she talked on and on that there was surely enough time in mother’s life for husband number five.  When she finally stopped talking I took the opportunity to ask her why she never wore black for the funerals.  I said, “Mother, I’ve been wanting to ask you something for a long time.  I hope you don’t become upset with me, but I am curious about something.”  

          “What is it Dolly?” she asked.           “Well mother, I always wondered why you wore white to each of the funerals and why you didn’t wear black?” 

                   She looked at me, and raised one of her eyebrows, and it appeared as if she were giving the question some serious thought.  After a few seconds she said, “Oh, but I did wear black.  For each of the funerals I always wore black silk panties for one night, just as your dear father had always said I would.  And, without missing a beat she continued on and told me about the new gentlemen that had joined her Wednesday afternoon senior’s social club.  Then I wondered to myself, how many pairs of black silk panties did mother own, or did she have just one pair for this special occasion, of sorts.

 Copyright, 2010  Annie Fiore

 Annie Fiore-Nicoletti grew up in The Bronx.   She and her husband relocated to Saugerties in 1998.   She is retired from more than twenty-five years working in an administrative capacity in the health care sector.   Annie had a great imagination all of her life.  She started storytelling for her two granddaughters who she refers to as The Sunshine Girls.  It was Tanna and Teah who prompted her to put one of their favorite stories on paper.  Since then she has written several children’s short stories and is working on her first novel. Annie enjoys writing for pleasure and hopes to some day be published.  She is also the founder of the Saugerties Writer’s Club.